A Man of Rohan
by Cleophos the Wayfarer
Summary: War is coming to Middle-earth. As the host of Isengard marches on Helm's Deep, the adventure of a young man begins...
1. Prologue

_Hello! This is my first fanfiction, so I'm hoping it won't be a total failure. If any of you would critique and leave tips, that would be most appreciated. Please enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I'm not the owner of Lord of the Rings. That work of genius belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and this tale was not made for the gain of profit._

Prologue – Son of Daren

It seemed that fate was cruel indeed. After all the raiding and the death-bringing throughout all of the Riddermark, the final doom of the Eorlingas would be decided at Helm's Deep. He had heard the talk among the men, that an army of Uruk-Hai, at least ten-thousand strong, was marching to destroy them all. It was quiet, and many silently cursed the foul name of the traitor Saruman.

None could see hope for tomorrow, least of all him. All he could see was his burning village in the Westfold, the men, women, _children_, that were hewn down by the merciless creatures and their allies from Dunland. He no longer felt fear, joy, or hope, only anger that burned brighter than any bonfire he had witnessed. But underneath it all, was raw pain that tore him apart.

They were climbing rocks that day, as they often did, and it saved them. When they turned back, Orcs and wild men had surrounded the community, setting it ablaze. "Why is this happening?" Denor asked him, but he could not answer, could not offer comfort. They only had the clothes on their backs as they fled. There was no time to grab food or his hunting bow.

After traveling two days in the wild with hunger and thirst, they found other refugees that journeyed to Helm's Deep for sanctuary. They welcomed the two lads, feeding them and keeping them warm. However, misery continued to hound them. His brother Denor had taken ill just as they were nearing the fortress, the sickness increasing as the light faded. During that night, his brother asked him to stay with him, that he didn't want to be alone. Before he passed, Denor said that hopefully mother and father would be waiting for him. Then he remained silent forevermore.

No soft words from the other refugees could comfort him, nothing could dull the pain that had become commonplace in his heart. He dug a grave next to the creek and, with tears he had held back until then, he placed the little body in the hole. With the help of four men, they placed a stone to mark the spot and to protect it from carrion feeders.

It took everything he had left to make it to the fortress, dragging one foot after the other. He helped other refugees then and now in whatever way he could, but he spoke little or nothing. How could he offer words of peace and comfort if he did not feel it?

Now soldiers were walking among the peasants, directing them to the caves. He moved with the masses, walking as if he were in a dream. It was only until someone shook his shoulder that his thoughts were interrupted. "Sir, we're needed at the armory and it's the other way."

He looked to his left to see a boy, no older than himself. He was pointing back towards the keep, where men scurried about preparing for the siege. "What do you mean, 'We're needed'?"

"King Theoden has ordered that every able man and strong lad are to participate in the defense. You are able, are you not?"

He had wanted this chance for revenge. He wanted it so badly ever since he arrived, that he had nearly forgotten what it was like to live a simple life. But he couldn't forget the pain, probably never would. "I am able, and I am eager to fight."

The other cocked an eyebrow. "Eager? What for?"

"That's my affair."

Slowly, the other nodded and they turned to walk back to the Keep. "What's your name?" the other asked. After some hesitation, he answered.

"Deor, son of Daren."

"Halas, son of Hamas."

There was no more talk as they neared the armory. They were passing the threshold, glimpsing men moving through sets of armor and weapons, when Deor collided with another trying to exit.

"Forgive me, I—" Words escaped the sixteen-year-old as he beheld the most peculiar sight. Before him stood a small man—if it was a man—covered in thick, dark red hair, holding an axe in its hand. "What? You've never seen a dwarf before?"

Blinking in surprise, Deor regained speech. "Well, no. I have heard many tales of the Mountain Folk, though I thought they did not leave the deep places of the earth and have no love of sunlight."

The dwarf snorted. "That would be orcs, not dwarves. If you know what's good for yeh, you'll believe your own senses than idle gossip." He peered at both of them, and then chuckled. "So, you two expect to fight an army of Uruk-Hai in those rags, eh?"

"If need be," Halas replied dryly, "However, we would like some weapons and armor, master dwarf."

"Then go see Grimbold, towards the back. He'll get you what you need. Tell him that Gimli sent you." With that said, the dwarf made his exit.

"Let's hope his axe is as quick as his tongue."

Halas laughed. "I don't think we need worry about that."

Deor did not laugh. He found little to laugh about now. "Well, let us find this Grimbold." And they moved to the back, to outfit for war.

* * *

Armor saved men's lives, but that didn't mean they had to like wearing it. Indeed, as Deor stood next to Halas near a cooking fire, he would have gladly shed off this steel cage if he had not known he would need it. It was heavy, hot and it smelled of the previous owner. At least he fit into it; he had already seen many small boys in men's armor attempting to lift swords far too big for them.

_We're going to be slaughtered._ He couldn't deny it, nor would anyone else. This was a battle that none of them were going to survive. The majority of their forces were old men and young lads, and it was rumored that many soldiers joined Eomer when he sought to battle Isengard without the King's leave. It was sad, for if there was any time Eomer was needed, it was now. Halas was holding his sword, examining it in the firelight as they waited for what must be their last meal as the night deepened.

"Give me your sword."

They turned to see a disheveled man in weather-beaten cloak sitting on the steps behind them. He was tall and grim, with dark hair and eyes that shone in the dark with a keen light. Halas stepped forth and offered him the handle. "What are your names?"

"Halas, son of Hamas, my lord. This is Deor, son of Daren." He paused before continuing. "The men are saying we are not going to live out the night. They say it is hopeless."

The man studied them a moment, then stood. With Halas' sword in hand, he swung it through the air experimentally a few times. "This is a good sword," he declared.

Handing it back, he placed his hands on their shoulders. "Halas, Deor, there is _always_ hope." His eyes burned with a pale light. Hope kindled in their hearts and their eyes followed him as he left.

At length Deor spoke. "Who in the name of Helm Hammerhand was that?"

"Lord Aragorn," Halas whispered. "It is said he is the Chief of the Dunedain, the heir of Isildur."

Deor said nothing, but his mind was thundering. He looked to the heavens and saw that clouds were forming. A storm was on the way…

* * *

The venison was simple, but it filled them up and cheered their spirits. _It's said if you're going to your death, eat your fill._ They were cleaning up the remnants when a horn rang out, long and clear. All talk ceased as men readied their weapons and hurried to their places at the battlements. But Grimbold called out. "Stay your weapons! Send for the King, open the gate!"

_Open the gate? _Deor followed Halas to the courtyard, to find strange figures marching into it with perfect step. A glow seemed to be round about them, and their leader bowed in greeting to Theoden as he descended the stairs. "How is this possible?" the King asked. In Deor's mind, a forgotten memory of his mother's stories whispered the name of this wonderful folk: elves.

"I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell," the elf said with a soft voice. "An alliance once existed between elves and men. Long ago, we fought and died together." Footsteps were approaching from the left, then Deor saw Aragorn appear, followed by another elf and Gimli. "We come to honor that allegiance," the elf finished with a smile.

Aragorn approached, and he greeted the elf in an unfamiliar tongue…then he embraced the other without shame. The elf looked surprised at this gesture, then smiled and lightly returned the embrace. Aragorn withdrew. "You are most welcome," he said.

The two elves clasped arms, and, as one, the elven host turned and snapped to attention with their longbows. "We are proud to fight alongside men once more."

The men of Rohan gave a loud cheer. _Maybe we have a chance after all,_ thought Deor.


	2. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I'm not the owner of Lord of the Rings. That work of genius belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and this tale was not made for the gain of profit._

Chapter 1 – Battle for Helm's Deep

Everything was set in motion. Aragorn and the elf Haldir would direct the defense of the Deeping Wall with the elves, while Theoden and the Rohirrim would defend the Keep. Once the preparations were made, they stood at the walls, waiting. The tension in the air was so thick that the sharpest blade would be hard-pressed to cut through it. Before long, they saw the torchlight and marching beat of the enemy host advancing slowly towards them. Even as the front lines neared, more torches and figures were appearing over the hill in the distance.

There was a flash of light and thunder shook the ravine. Thunderheads stirred above, and lightning and thunder struck once more. As the final element to the grim scene, rain began to pour on them all, running off their armor and the stone of the fortress. The enemy continued to advance, growing ever closer until one Uruk—the leader of these monsters perhaps—gave a long howl that called the army to a halt nearly one-hundred paces from the wall.

They stood there for eternity, and Deor felt that he would go mad if it didn't begin soon. Then the chant began.

The Uruk-Hai began stamping their pikes and feet on the ground, screaming in their foul tongue as they eagerly awaited the battle to come. It was only an intimidation tactic, to which the only response was the men on the walls readying their bows.

The earth shook beneath their feet and the din echoed off the mountain walls. Maybe thousands of galloping horsemen wouldn't even compare to the noise. Suddenly, an old man next to Halas lost grip on his arrow and the shaft streaked towards the Uruks, where one in front was struck.

Silence fell again, everyone and everything was holding its breath…then the Uruk collapsed face-first into the mud.

The Uruk-Hai began howl again, but there was now a definite note of anger over their fallen comrade. Deor knew that nothing would hold them back for much longer. Then the Uruk leader obliged their wish with a final howl and the enemy rushed forward.

The elves loosed a volley at them and the front line wavered as the second continued on. Then, command came for the men to fire and Deor released his arrow with the others. The enemy was falling in droves, but for every Uruk that fell, two more appeared in his place. Soon enough, the black tide had reached the wall and ladders were raised, while some returned fire at the elves with crossbows.

Now swords were clashing on the Deeping Wall, and still more enemies were appearing over the opposite ridge. Deor suppressed a groan. _This is going to be long night…_

* * *

Uruk-Hai were marching up the Causeway to the gate, their shields locked together in front and on top to block the arrows and stones flung at them. The elves must have noticed this new threat, for they began to fire on their exposed sides, hindering their progress. The men were beginning to take hope again, perhaps thinking they could drive the enemy to retreat. That's when Deor spotted a strange light moving through the enemy host.

It looked like an Uruk was bearing a torch with a white flame to the wall, other Uruks cheering him on. Deor was pondering what this could mean when the creature reached the wall—

A resounding boom echoed throughout the ravine and Deor staggered. When he regained his feet, he looked back to the wall…or rather, where the wall had _been._ A gap had appeared where the culvert once was, creating a gateway to the enemy host. The men gaped as the Deeping Wall, which served as a defense to Rohan for thousands of years, had been undone in a matter of seconds, by _fire_ no less. _Where did they get that kind of weapon!?_ he thought, but the answer came from the White Hand of the traitor on their banners.

"Damn you, Saruman!" he cried, "May your head be placed on a pike for this!"

His words stirred the men, but there was little their arrows could do. The enemy was already surging through the breach and the elven reserves were trying to hold them back.

The wood-folk fought valiantly in the Deep, but slowly, they were beaten back by sheer numbers. Theoden was calling down to Aragorn, urging him to retreat to the Keep with what men he had left. Of the proud elven host, numbering nearly three-hundred, perhaps only fifty or so remained.

Now, as the shield-wall was nearing the gate, a battering ram burst forth and was racing towards the doors. "Brace the gate!" Men obeyed the King's order below as others on the wall hurled stones and spears at ram-bearers. Deor loosed all his remaining arrows at the attackers, but it wasn't enough. There was a splintering crash below, followed by shouts and more swords clashing.

"To the gate!" Theoden cried. "Draw your swords!" Deor drew his blade and readied his shield, following his Liege to the battle below. They rounded the corner and saw a large hole in the gate, Uruks pouring in through it. With a cry, King Theoden flung himself at them, his men not far behind.

It was during these moments that Deor had his first close look at an Uruk-Hai. The shape of a man appeared before him, towering a full head above the Rohirrim. It wielded a large blade, swinging at anything unfortunate enough to be in its reach. And beneath the helmet of crude iron, a face filled with malice and savagery as it slashed its victims.

This observation, however brief, was ended when the monster rushed forward. To Deor's horror, the beast was making for Theoden and his lieutenant Gambling, who was tending a wound on the King, and both remained oblivious to the creature. Steeling himself, he leapt into the Uruk's path, blocking him. "You will not have my King!"

The Uruk laughed, a horrible sound that sent shivers down Deor's spine. Raising his sword, he charged at the monstrosity. The creature blocked the sword with his own, and swung his shield, forcing Deor back a pace. He danced away from its next attack, keeping himself on the move. He was fortunate that the young lads in his village had a boxing competition. As a boy he had developed a technique of agility to dodge attacks, and then counterattack. Combined with the basic sword techniques Grimbold had taught him earlier, he was doing an adequate job of avoiding the Uruk's wild slashes.

"Aim for its neck!" someone yelled behind him. Deor blocked an attack with his shield, and, looking up, he saw the Uruk's jugular, unarmored. Seizing his opportunity, he stabbed upward, the tip sank into flesh, and the Uruk collapsed. He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, dimly aware of Gambling clapping him on the shoulder.

It wasn't his first kill. He had hunted game for food before the war and he fired upon these creatures throughout the night. But this was personal; he had never been so close when he ended the life of another. The dead Uruk's eyes stared blankly at him, its final expression of shock forever frozen onto its features. He didn't feel any remorse for his action. The creature would have done the same to him without hesitation, without regret.

Suddenly, Aragorn and Gimli were there, sweeping away the Uruks as a wind among grass.

"Boy!" Theoden was next to him, shaking his arm. "I need you to help gather men to bring materials so we can shore up the door!"

"Oh, right!" He ran back into the Keep and carried out the King's command. Men lifted the heavy beams and hurried back to the gate, in preparation to barricade the hole. Deor seized a new quiver of arrows and his bow, and he ran back to his place on the wall to assist the archers.

* * *

Just as he made it, a large grappling hook latched itself onto the wall. As Deor watched, two more attached and gigantic ladders were raised, bring fresh waves of Uruk-Hai over the high wall. The enemy had them fighting on three fronts and there weren't enough men to hold them. Their doom didn't seem far off now.

Another ladder was being raised when he saw an elf appear. He raised his bow and, with uncanny accuracy, shot at the rope supporting the ladder, slicing cleanly through. The ladder slowed, then leant back as the Uruks fell to their deaths. "Good shot!" he called to the elf, who was throwing a rope down to the Causeway. Deor saw Aragorn and Gimli running for the lifeline as more Uruks stormed up the Causeway, one of them raising his crossbow to take aim at the elf.

The boy fired first and was rewarded with the sight of his arrow sticking out of the Uruk's eye-hole. The elf was hauling both man and dwarf up with inhuman strength and they were soon on top of the wall. "Much thanks, Legolas," Gimli panted. None of them were safe yet, though.

More enemies were swarming over the battlements and the remaining men and elves were being hewn down. Deor looked over to see Halas contending with an enemy, right next to the edge above the stairs. Rushing over, he shoved the Uruk with his shield, where it teetered at the edge for a moment, then fell twenty feet to its death. Halas was about to voice thanks when another appeared behind him, sticking him in the back.

"Halas!" He raised his sword and severed the Uruk's head from its body, before stooping to help his friend. There was nothing he could do, Halas was dead.

"Fall back!" It was Gambling's voice. "Fall back!"

"Retreat! Into the Keep!"

Deor would not heed that command, not without Halas. He attempted to lift the body, but two pairs of hands grasped him from behind and bore him away.

"Let me go!" He fought to get free, but the grip was firm. "Let me go!"

"You cannot face them all." It was Legolas.

"I don't care! I cannot leave him!" Even as he watched, the Uruks hacked at everything in sight, including the bodies of those fallen.

"He's dead, laddie!" Gimli was there too. "We will be too if we don't fall back!"

And so, they retreated into the Keep, through the last doors to make a final stand.

* * *

It wouldn't be long now. The doors were barred and the remaining defenders were bracing it with what materials they had left: crates, tables, and themselves. But it wouldn't be enough, the enemy would eventually break through and they would be overwhelmed one by one. Deor paced back and forth like a caged beast, waiting for the first enemy to cross the threshold.

Even the King seemed to have lost hope. "The fortress is taken. It is over."

"You said this fortress will never fall while your men defend it," Aragorn told him. "They still defend it. They have _died_ defending it!"

The door shuddered from another blow. Legolas tipped another table, spilling its contents onto the floor as he added it to the barricade.

"Is there no other way for the women and children to get out of the caves?" No one answered Aragorn. "Is there no other way?" he repeated.

"There is one passage," Gambling answered. "It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far, the Uruk-Hai are too many."

Another blow from the battering ram.

"Send word for the women and children to make for the mountain pass. And barricade the entrance!"

"So much death," said Theoden, oblivious to the discussion. "What can men do against such reckless hate?"

The ram struck again and the first crack appeared.

Aragorn's voice was but a whisper, yet all seemed to hear him. "Ride out with me. Ride out and meet them."

Theoden turned to him, a glint in his eyes. "For death and glory."

"For Rohan," replied Aragorn.

Deor stopped pacing, and he thought of home before turning to face them. "For our people."

Gimli suddenly spoke. "The sun is rising." A faint glimmer appeared through the window. They knew the dawn would not halt the creatures, but something about it seemed to kindle hope in their hearts.

"Yes." Weariness left Theoden. "Yes. The Horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep…one last time."

"Yes!" cried Gimli, sprinting for the stairs. Another crack in the doors appeared as the doors shuddered from another blow.

"May this be the hour when we draw swords together," said Theoden. Horses were summoned and the King, Gambling, Aragorn, Legolas, two of the King's guard, and Deor mounted. The remaining elves and men would make their stand in the room.

"Fell deeds, awake!" _Crack!_ "Now for wrath, now for ruin, and a red dawn!"

The horn blew, rumbling throughout the Deep as the final blow rent the doors.

"Forth Eorlingas!" cried Theoden, and they charged.

The Uruks attempted to halt them, but they had the momentum and the upper hand. Any that weren't trampled fell by the sword as they made their way down the ramp, through the gates and across the Causeway. The creatures were obviously not expecting this kind of resistance now, and they moved to and fro in confusion.

Deor rode with the others into the valley, hacking at any Uruk within reach. It continued as such until they noticed a rider on the eastern ridge. "Gandalf!" someone cried, but his attention was focused on another rider that just appeared next to the other. He drew his sword and more riders popped over the ridge, the Uruk-Hai turning to face this new threat.

"Eomer!" shouted Theoden, just as the riders charged. It was a magnificent sight as Eomer and the rider in white led the host down into the ravine, straight towards them. The Uruks formed rank and lowered their pikes in anticipation, baying for blood. It was at that moment, perhaps by some divine power, that the sun rose over the ridge, blinding all who looked upon the riders.

When Deor's vision cleared, he saw that Eomer's troops had breached the enemy lines with few losses and the battle had become a rout. The tide had turned!

A company was racing up the Causeway, doubtlessly to deal with what Uruk-Hai remained inside, while the rest cut down the enemy in the Deep. A horn sounded a retreat and the Uruks fled. The host began to give chase, but Eomer held them back. "Keep away from the trees!"

_Trees? There's nothing out there but endless plains…_ When Deor looked forth, he didn't see plains, but a vast forest sprawled before him. _What?! Is this another trick of Saruman's?_ He fumed as he saw the enemy retreat into the safety of the trees, unhindered. He considered disobeying Eomer, when yet another marvel occurred.

The trees closest to them seemed to bunch together once the Uruks passed, creating a natural barrier. Then, trees farther in started bending and flailing their limbs, as though a great wind was passing through them, but Deor could not feel any breeze. Finally, his suspicions that this was Saruman's doing were laid to rest as he heard the cries of pain and terror from the Uruk-Hai, as they were destroyed by…trees.

The forest stilled, and all men looked in wonder until Theoden called them back to the Deep.

* * *

_Ok, the battle of Helm's Deep is finished. If there are certain scenes from the movies or books from Deor's perspective you want included, please let me know. Again, please critique if you feel I'm in need of improvement. _


	3. Chapter 2

_I decided to polish this chapter a bit and redo some of the descriptions and paragraphs. I just didn't feel too happy with it, though I've left most of it as it was._

_Disclaimer: I'm not the owner of Lord of the Rings. That work of genius belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and this tale was not made for the gain of profit._

Chapter 2 – A Traitor's Voice

Silence lay heavily upon Helm's Deep as they returned. Even the wind was scarce, leaving the stench and feeling of death round about them. As Deor wandered through the halls and past the ramparts, he gazed at the forms of elves, men and Uruks as they lay dead. It was even worse in the Keep, where corpses were piled in heaps on the ground and the wall.

Those who listened to tales of great battles probably thought that feasting and merry-making were underway by battle's end. Whoever believed that was a fool, and Deor had not the heart to eat or drink. Not yet, maybe not ever.

In the courtyard of the Hornburg, he found the King speaking with the white rider. Nearby stood the rider's horse, white as snow in the morning light.

"Once more you come in the hour of need, unlooked-for," Theoden said.

"Unlooked-for?" the rider asked. "I said that I would return and meet you here at first light."

"But you did not foretell the manner of your coming. Strange help you bring." Theoden turned to look out at the wood, then back to his friend. "You are mighty in wizardry, Gandalf the White!"

Gandalf laughed. "That may be, but I have not shown it yet. I have but given good counsel in times of peril, found wandering Eomer, and made use of the speed of Shadowfax. No, I see the wood as plainly as you do, but that is no deed of mine."

"Then if not yours, whose is the wizardry? Not Saruman's, that is plain."

"It is not wizardry, but a power far older, ere elf sang or hammer rang.

"_Ere iron was found or tree was hewn,_

_When young was mountain under moon;_

_Ere ring was made of wrought was woe,_

_It walked the forests long ago."_

"And what may be the answer to your riddle?" asked the King.

"If you would learn that, you should come with me to Isengard."

"To Isengard?!" Deor cried. He wasn't the only one who had shouted. By now, all the men in the courtyard were listening to the conversation and many looked at Gandalf with suspicion.

"Yes," said Gandalf, "I shall go to Isengard, and those who may come with me. There we may see strange things."

Theoden paled. "But there are not enough in the Mark, not if they were gathered together and healed of wounds and weariness, to assault the stronghold of Saruman!"

"Nevertheless to Isengard I go. I shall not stay there long. I wish to speak to Saruman." Gandalf looked at Theoden. "And since he has done you great injury, it would be fitting if you were there. How soon and how swiftly can you ride?"

"My men are weary with battle," said Theoden, "and I am weary also."

"Then let all who are to ride with me rest now. But do not command many men to go with you, Theoden. We go to a parley, not to a fight."

Men were given assignments, whether to tend the wounded or remove the dead. Deor, however, was surprised to learn that he was to be part of the envoy to Isengard. King Theoden himself invited the boy, "as a reward for your bravery in the battle," but that did not seem to be all. He sought a private audience with his lord, which Theoden granted.

"My lord," Deor asked tentatively, as they stood upon the tower that bore the Horn of Helm Hammerhand. "May I be so bold as to ask the true reason why you have asked of me to accompany you?"

"I spoke true before, as a reward for your bravery." Theoden hesitated before he spoke again. "But also for another reason. I saw it in your eyes, when you slew the Uruk. Even through them now, I see a heart that cries vengeance against Isengard, for the pain it has caused you."

He clasped Deor's shoulder. "My heart bears that pain as well. I will not ask why you hate the Uruk-Hai so, but I will ask you of this: Become my esquire, for if my belief is true, you have no place to call home."

In the silence that followed, Deor became aware that tears were running down his face. Neither of them spoke, but each felt a sense of kinship for the other as they stood in the morning sun.

Deor nodded and the King smiled. Turning, he led the way down the steps. "Come. We shall journey to Isengard by sunset. The night has been long and we must rest for the journey ahead." They returned to the Hornburg, and there with the rest of the envoy, they slept.

* * *

When Deor awoke, he saw that men had not been idle while he had slept. In the valley before the fortress, two mounds had been raised. Those who fell in the defense were buried beneath them, men and elves together. The Uruks were piled in great heaps, away from the mounds and near the eaves of the forest by Gandalf's instruction. As the final preparations were made, the King ordered the people to gather at Edoras once all was done.

"You should name your horse, you know," Gambling told him as they led their mounts towards the mounds.

"What?" Deor was taken aback by the statement.

"He consents for you to ride him, but you should honor him with a name. The Rohirrim have always loved our horses like unto brothers, for we have passed through many dangers together."

He gazed at his burgundy-colored horse, thoughtful. _What would be a suitable name for him? _He pondered many names for a moment, even those of Leofwyn and Denor, but they did not seem fitting. He then remembered an old word, one of ancient Rohirric nature that meant Horse-Spirit.

He placed a hand on the animal's head. "I name you Eomód. May your footfalls be light and swift!"

The company arrived at the mounds. A somber mood fell over them as they stood beside the two great hills of earth, and Deor thought of Halas and the other brave men and elves that fell. At length, Theoden spoke.

"Great injury has Saruman done to me and all this land. I will remember it when we meet."

They mounted and rode on, passing through the forest in single file with Gandalf in the lead. The trees seemed old, even for trees. Moss grew abundantly on them, but there was a complete feeling of strangeness to the place. The trees creaked and groaned, as though the very foundations of the earth restless.

"These are the strangest trees that I ever saw," said Legolas. "I wish there were leisure now, that I may walk among them; they have voices and in time, I might come to understand their thought. What has become of the miserable Orcs, I wonder?"

"That, I think, no one will ever know," said Gandalf.

It was long after the sun had set and after they left the wood, that camp was made near the Fords of Isen. As Deor prepared for sleep, he was glad the strange forest was behind them. He did not like it as he rode under the boughs, that the trees seemed to be watching them. If Gandalf had not been there with them, he would not like to think what might have happened.

* * *

The morning was fair when they woke and the journey relatively easier until they neared the fortress of Saruman. Another forest surrounded Isengard and once again, Gandalf led the way through the dark wood. Again, they entered an entirely different world than that of which Deor knew his entire life, and he wondered if the trees found him just as strange, if he was among the first of men these woods had ever seen.

They had reached the far end of the forest when Deor first beheld the 'great' fortress.

The doors lay broken and twisted on the ground. The walls were cracked and splintered stone lay all about. The ring beyond was filled with steaming water, in which floated beams, chests, casks and other gear. And in the center stood a tall, black tower, seemingly unharmed.

All save for Gandalf stared in wonder, and then they noticed two small figures, lying at ease on the broken wall, with bottles and platters laid about them as if there was a feast. One seemed to breathe wisps of thin blue smoke, until Deor noticed the pipe in its mouth. It stood.

"Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!" he said. He was the size of a small child, yet he bore the face of a man. What's more, he and his companion were barefoot, with hair on top as curly as that on their heads.

Gimli burst forth. "You young rascals! You wooly-footed truants! A merry hunt you've led us on, and now we find you feasting…and _smoking!"_

The seated creature spoke up. "We are sitting on a field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts." He held a piece of meat. "The salted pork is _particularly _good."

"Well-earned?" scoffed Gimli. "I cannot believe that!" The riders laughed.

Gandalf shook his head. "Hobbits…" he muttered.

The first 'hobbit' pointed inside. "We're under orders from Treebeard, who has taken over management of Isengard."

"And where is he?" inquired Gandalf.

"Away on the north side, I believe. He said to bring guests to the Tower of Orthanc once they arrived."

"That's better!" said Gandalf with a laugh. "I was beginning to worry that food and drink had slowed your wits!"

The hobbits (Merry and Pippin were their names) mounted with Aragorn and Eomer. Gandalf then led them all through the shallow lake to the dark tower, stopping next to something rather odd.

A tree, or what seemed like a tree, stood high above the water. It was in the shape of a man, with bright eyes that stared out of a thick tangle of twigs and leaves that resembled a beard. _This must be Treebeard,_ he thought.

"Young Master Gandalf," it slowly spoke in a deep rumble. "I'm glad you've come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master. But there's a wizard to manage here, locked in his tower." Deor gazed at it, and it seemed to grow even more menacing when he realized whom it housed.

"Be careful," cautioned Gandalf. "Even in defeat, Saruman is dangerous."

"Well, let's just have his head and be done with it," said Gimli.

"No," said Gandalf sternly. "We need him alive. We need him to talk."

Deor was going to speak his objection, when the Voice began to speak. It was low and melodious, the very sound an enchantment. He felt a sudden urging to agree with the Voice, to listen to its wisdom.

"You have fought many wars and slain many men, Theoden King, and made peace afterwards. Can we not take counsel as we once did, my old friend? Can we not have peace, you and I?"

At the apex of the tower, a figure like Gandalf, yet unlike him, appeared. _Can the King not see that peace is in the interest of all…?_

Deor halted this thought when he realized it was not his own. Rushing back came the memories of his village, burning as the Uruk-Hai slaughtered the inhabitants, _laughing._ He fought and the enchantment began to slip from him when the King spoke.

"We shall have peace," Theoden said at last with an effort.

Deor started. "My lord—" But Theoden held up his hand.

"We shall have peace…when _you_ answer for the burning of Westfold, and the children that lie dead there! When the lives of the soldiers, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet, for the sport of your own crows…_we shall have peace!"_

The spell broke and Saruman stood there, shaking with anger. "Gibbets and crows? Dotard! And what do you want, Gandalf Greyhame? The Key of Orthanc? Or perhaps the Keys of Barad-dur itself? Along with Crowns of the Seven Kings and the Rods of the Five Wizards!"

Gandalf was unmoved by this outburst of rage. "Your treachery has cost many lives. Thousands more are now at risk. But you could save them, Saruman. You were deep in the Enemy's counsel."

"So, you have come here for information," Saruman sneered. "I have some for you."

He raised his arm, holding what appeared to be a black stone, gazing into its depths. "Something festers in the heart of Middle-earth. Something you have failed to see. But the Great Eye has seen it." He gazed back at them. "Even now, he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon. You're all going to die!"

There was a hint of amusement as he spoke, causing Deor to hate him all the more for the suffering he took pleasure from.

"But you know this, don't you Gandalf? You cannot expect this _Ranger_ to sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never become king!"

_Aragorn? A king?_ Somewhere in the conversation, Deor suspected that it had past into matters that were beyond his understanding.

"Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him," continued Saruman. "Those he professes to love. Tell me, what words of comfort did you offer the halfling, before you sent him to his doom?"

Deor gazed at the hobbits, but they seemed focused on Gandalf, who did not answer. "The path you have set him on," said Saruman, voicing his contempt, "can only lead to death."

"I've heard enough!" shouted Gimli. "Shoot him!" he urged Legolas. "Stick an arrow in his gob!"

"Hear, hear!" said Deor as the elf reached for his quiver.

"No!" Gandalf gazed sternly at the three of them, before calling up to his counterpart. "Come down, Saruman, and your life will be spared."

Saruman drew himself up to full height, hissing like a snake. "Save your pity and your mercy!" he spat, "I have no use for it!"

A great ball of flame burst from the end of his staff, speeding towards Gandalf and enveloping both him and Shadowfax. Eomód reared up in fright and it took a minute for Deor to calm him. When he looked back, Gandalf and the horse had emerged from the flames, unharmed. If he had not seen it first hand, Deor would have believed nothing had happened.

Gandalf spoke, and Deor shivered as the wizard's voice rang throughout Isengard.

"Saruman, your staff is broken!"

The White Wizard did not raise his own staff, nor gesture in any visible way. Yet the moment the words escaped his lips, Saruman's staff snapped like a twig. Where Deor had seen a powerful sage before, all he saw now was a broken old man in robes.

Nothing more.

A dark shape appeared next to Saruman, cowering like a whipped dog. At its sighting, Theoden spoke.

"Grima, you need not follow him. You were not always as you are now, you were once a man of Rohan." The King beckoned. "Come down."

Deor had known little of the King's advisors, but it was obvious now from where Saruman had gained information of Rohan and its defenses.

Grima gazed back, a light in his eyes as he thought back to better days. He moved as if to obey.

"A man of Rohan?" Saruman sneered. "What is the house of Eorl, but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs?! Victory at Helm's Deep does not belong to you, Theoden Horse-master! You are a lesser son of greater sires." Deor resisted the urge to fire an arrow at the wretched man himself.

Theoden did not reply to Saruman, but beckoned to Wormtongue once more. "Grima, come down. Be free of him."

"Free?!" barked Saruman. "He will never be free!"

"No," said Grima, visibly displaying his resentment for the other man.

The former wizard turned to face him. "Get down, cur!" And he slapped Grima, knocking him down.

"Saruman!" called Gandalf, "You were deep in the Enemy's counsel. Tell us what you know!"

The gaze Saruman sent him was filled with hate and bitterness. "You withdraw your guard, and I will tell you where your doom may be decided. I will not be held prisoner here."

Something inside Grima must have snapped when the wizard struck him. At that moment, he rose to his feet and leapt at Saruman. Deor saw a knife flash in the sun before he stabbed downward. With incredible swiftness, Legolas drew an arrow and fired it at Wormtongue, striking his heart. He cried out in pain before collapsing on the tower, but the damage had already been done.

Saruman swayed, then slipped over the edge, falling towards them. It appeared that he was heading for the water…until he fell upon one of the sharp edges of a water-wheel. Merry gasped at the brutality, but Deor felt a savage pleasure. _It seems fitting: stabbed in the back by a collaborator, then ultimately killed by his own instrument._

The wheel slowly turned, and the body of the previous White Wizard disappeared beneath the murky water.

There was a great 'Hoom!' from Treebeard. "The filth of Saruman is washing away. Trees will come back to live here. Young trees, wild trees."

Pippin suddenly dropped from Aragorn's horse, wading towards the spot where Saruman vanished. The ranger called after him. "Pippin!"

The hobbit stooped, then stood, rising with the black stone that the wizard held moments before. "Bless my bark!" Treebeard exclaimed.

Gandalf rode up. "Peregrin Took. I'll take that my lad." He extended his arm, but Pippin seemed hesitant to hand it over. "Quickly, now." With some reluctance, the halfling relinquished the stone and Gandalf covered it with the folds of his robes.

"Well, that is the end of it," he sighed. "Let us make for Edoras. Once there, we must send word to all our allies. To every corner of Middle-earth that still stands free. The Enemy moves against us, we need to know where he will strike."

* * *


	4. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I'm not the owner of Lord of the Rings. That work of genius belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and this tale was not made for the gain of profit._

Chapter 3 – The Palantír

After they departed Isengard, it was another two days before they neared the city. Passing over the final ridge, he gazed at the capital of Rohan. A hill surrounded by a mighty wall rose in the distance. Within lay many houses and at the top, a great hall of men thatched with gold. All his life, Deor longed to see Edoras and the Golden Hall of Meduseld. _Look how it gleams in the afternoon sun!_

As they drew nearer, he saw the mounds of kings past, from Eorl the Young to Thengel, the father of Theoden. Deor noticed that another mound had been added, recently too. "Who lies within that one?" he asked Gambling.

The man was hesitant before speaking. "There lies Theodred, the King's son. He was ambushed by Orcs, at the Fords of Isen almost a fortnight ago. We had brought him back here, but the wound was grievous and he later died in his sleep."

Deor's mind journeyed back to Helm's Deep, as Theoden was about to offer him a position as his esquire. _My heart bears that pain as well…_

Once they passed the gate, the people gave them a hero's welcome. Flowers were cast on the road into their path, and the inhabitants waved small flags of the Rohan banner: the White Horse on the Green. They stared in awe of Gandalf, Theoden and all the others as they rode past, bowing respectfully. The hobbits shifted in their saddles, getting a better look at the city around them. Deor felt uneasy about the sudden attention and tried to remain inconspicuous.

Gambling elbowed him. "Smile," he said.

He attempted to imitate the older man's grin, and felt immensely foolish once he had done so. He had never enjoyed being the center of attention, even when he faced the other lads in their boxing game back home. He always preferred obscurity, and he just hoped that his face wasn't turning red. The crowd had followed them to the very stairs of Meduseld, where Theoden announced that there would be a feast that night, prompting more cheers from the people.

Once inside, the others moved to separate rooms to clean and ready themselves for the celebration later, yet Deor lingered in the main hall.

The splendor of the Golden Hall was just as great within, and he marveled at the craftsmanship. It probably paled in comparison to dwarven architecture, if half of the rumors were true, but there was beauty found in this place. Stones of many hues paved the floor, inscribed with ancient runes. The pillars were richly carved, gleaming with gold and half-seen colors. Woven cloths hung from the walls and banisters, depicting proud figures of history and legend. One bore the visage of man with flowing yellow hair, blowing a great horn as he led an army of horsemen across a river.

"That is Eorl, leading his men to the Battle of Celebrant to save the men of Gondor from annihilation."

He turned to gaze at a young maiden, though she was older than him by some years. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her dress of white. Yet something in her eyes bore the strength of steel, though not unkind. She continued to gaze at the tapestry. "He led a great host out of the North over the Silverlode, driving upon the Enemy's rear when all hope seemed lost. The tide turned and they drove the Enemy off with great slaughter. In gratitude, the Steward Cirion gave the lands between the Anduin and Isen to Eorl and his folk, forming what is now the land of Rohan."

She looked to him and smiled. "I have not seen you here before. Have you some errand with the King?" Deor swallowed the lump in his throat. If facing crowds was dangerous, then speaking to women-folk was suicidal.

Leofwyn was probably the only exception…

He was still mired in his musings when he remembered that there was someone expecting an answer from him. Trying to imitate one the bows the peasants gave Theoden, he dipped his head to the maiden. "I am the King's esquire, milady. My name is Deor."

When he straightened, there was a bemused smile on her face. "I thank you, but there is no need for formalities."

And she embraced him. Deor froze on the spot, obviously not expecting this display on the maiden's part. _Women, you never know what they'll do… _

She withdrew and clasped his hands. "I am Eowyn, and I welcome you. Theoden has granted you a high honor by accepting you into his household. Though we are not bound by blood, you will always to be a brother to me."

He was aware that his face was turning very red and he was glad they were alone. The last thing he wanted was Gimli catching sight of this…

Eowyn smiled and called for a maid. "Please see that Master Deor is properly cleaned and dressed for tonight," she told the burly woman.

The maid nodded, seized Deor's hand and led him out. They weaved through the passages, passing many doors and rooms before stopping at the end of one. Opening the door, she pulled him into the room. The only feature of the room was a depression in the floor, five feet deep and eight across. _Seems rather big for one person…_

She released his arm and turned to face him. "Alright, let's have 'em."

Deor stared at her, confused by these words. "Excuse me?"

"Your armor, take it off. And ye clothes, unless ye want to bathe in 'em."

Comprehension hit him like a rock wall. "No."

The maid frowned at him. "Boy, we can do this the easy way, or the 'ard one. I'm 'fraid the Lady gave me a strict order on makin' you presentable." Her features softened a bit. "Don't worry, I won't peek."

She strode past him and closed the door behind her, but he could still hear the great shout from the other side, requesting hot water. Deor sighed, then began removing the bits of armor and padding from his body. After removing the leather jerkin, he began removing the rags that had been his clothes.

A short while later, a towel was about his waist and the maid had returned with some companions, each carrying two large buckets and pouring the steaming contents into the depression. After the others had left, Deor stood before the pool. The maid stood next to him, pouring an unknown liquid into the water that formed bubbles.

"Go on, get in."

He gazed uncertainly at the water, then over his shoulder at her, frowning. "Hot water? Are you trying to _cook_ me?"

She rolled her eyes and, with surprising speed, whisked the towel away and shoved Deor, who gave a shout as he tripped into the pool. The heat stung at him before he kicked off the floor and surfaced, spluttering.

The maid grinned. "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

He scowled at her, grateful for the privacy the bubbles offered. Still grinning, she turned to leave, but she paused at the door. "Give a holler if you find a fish." Then she left.

Muttering curses under his breath, he began to clean the dirt and blood off himself. After a while, the warmth began unwind the knots in his back. As the tension left his body, he thought of what Eowyn brought back to mind, another painful memory…

* * *

Even before in the village, he found it difficult to speak to any female, save for Leofwyn. The daughter of a drinker, she enjoyed watching the boys in their games, occasionally participating in them herself. And above all else, she seemed to have taken a liking to him. When Deor and his brother would go exploring, they would find her following them. The three of them grew close in later years, and soon they were found to be inseparable.

Until that last day. Denor had wanted to explore the ridge to the north. It was rumored in the village that it was haunted by ghosts of slain soldiers from the Second Age. Leofwyn's mother had forbidden her to even go near the place, but she was going to disobey her anyway, until Deor told her to go home. Due to her habits with ale, her mother was known for her fits of anger. He could still remember that bruise on Leo's cheek from the last beating, and he was afraid that it would feed the bonfire if she went with them.

After a heated argument with Denor watching, Leofwyn returned to the village sobbing and the brothers departed. It truly would have been an experience to remember, with the great rocks looming above them like silent guardians. After ten minutes of climbing the boulders, there were obviously no ghosts and they laughed at the foolishness of the villagers.

That was when the screaming started.

Climbing the nearest boulder and looking back, they saw the village in flames. Surrounding it, the black circle of Uruks and Dunlendings created an impassible barrier, cutting down any that escaped the fires. "Leofwyn…" He had sent Leo to her death, and every fiber of his being screamed_ Do something! _But he couldn't. What could one boy do against so many? And he had to look after his brother, the one thing he hoped he could do right after this terrible today.

Leaping down and lifting his brother, he fled. He ran for what felt like hours, before collapsing near the entrance of a cave. Dragging himself up, he commenced a thorough search of the shelter before determining it was uninhabited for some time. He sat in the corner with Denor, shielding him from the cold as the night came. They were lost in the wilderness, and it seemed death would come to claim them both all too soon.

* * *

It all seemed vain now. His brother later departed for the next world and he had nothing left. Before coming to Isengard, he had hoped that some measure of peace would be found once the traitor was brought to justice. However, he felt nothing. Not long after the corrupted wizard's death, Deor felt an uneasy emptiness slowly take him, and he began to comprehend that he was truly alone in this world.

Save for Theoden. Deor saw many qualities that the King had shared with his late father. They both were proud and strong, yet gentile and understanding. He remembered the words of the fair Eowyn: _Theoden has granted you a high honor by accepting you into his household… _

The pain in Deor's heart seemed to ease a little as he contemplated the meaning of this. Saruman had stolen everything from him: his home, his family, Leofwyn. Deor could never forget, but that didn't mean he could never move on, could it? At least, he would hold on to the memories of all he once called home, the bad and the good. Now, he could move on with a new life.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he looked to see the maid return with some fresh clothes. "The feast will begin soon, so ye better hurry and dress."

* * *

Nearly all of Edoras had crammed themselves into the hall, sitting at long tables throughout the room.

Deor felt strangely out of place as he sat to Gambling's left at the front. He thought that his apparel was too ostentatious for his liking, far more than his simple clothes from his old home. A dark red shirt went over his upper torso, followed by a black vest with gold lining. On his legs were simple, but well made brown breeches, with sturdy boots completing the ensemble.

Gambling had briefly explained the customs to him about the feast earlier, saying there would be a moment when Theoden would pay homage to the deceased. Even now, Lady Eowyn was bringing forth the golden cup to the King. She knelt as she presented the goblet, then withdrew to his side once he had taken it. The crowd in the hall stood, each with a mug of ale in their hand.

"Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country." The King raised the golden cup. "Hail the Victorious Dead!"

As one, they raised their cups. "Hail!" This was where they drank in remembrance of the fallen, but Deor hesitated before he raised the cup, thinking of Halas, the elves…Leofwyn. This would be his first mug of ale, and he—

A burning broth churned down his throat and he choked. He spat the ale from his mouth and he stood there, coughing. _Why would men even think of drinking such poison?! _Only then was he aware that an uncomfortable silence had fallen over the room.

He saw King Theoden staring at him from the front and he felt the eyes of all pressing down on him from behind. With dawning horror, he realized he had interrupted the ceremony and desperately searched for any means of escape. It was Gambling who came to his rescue.

"A man's first ale!" he yelled, clapping Deor on the back. Then the crowd cheered and drank another toast, this time to his good health. Deor saw that Theoden was drinking from his own cup, eyes twinkling with amusement as he gazed over the golden brim at the youth.

Soon the feast was well under way, and food and drink were passed out in abundance. Smiling faces were found nearly everywhere, though Deor knew it wasn't easy. Many in Rohan now shared the pain of loss, but he admired their courage as the people drank, laughed, and spoke fondly in memory of absent friends and loved ones.

As he passed through the merry masses, kindly refusing offers of ale, he noticed Legolas and Gimli at a table not far off, engaged in some sort of drinking game. As he drew closer, he noticed the many mugs and cups strewn about on the table between them as Eomer filled and passed fresh mugs to each.

"What rules are there?" he asked Eomer as he took a seat to watch.

The Third Marshal smiled as he continued passing goblets to the contestants. "Last one standing wins. Care to join?"

"No thank you, my lord. It was the first sip that nearly killed me."

Eomer's reply was cut off by a loud belch from Gimli. The dwarf then slurred some nonsense about an adventure of swimming in a lake with little hairy women. Eomer chuckled, but Deor wondered which urge was stronger: to laugh at this comment, or to regurgitate the food he had just eaten.

Legolas spoke up. "I feel something." He gazed at his hands. "A slight tingle in the fingers." The elf's eyes widened. "I think it's affecting me."

Gimli gave a drunken laugh as he set down yet another mug. "What did I shay? He can't hold hish liquor." Then, the dwarf's eyes crossed, and he toppled backwards off his stool with a crash. Legolas turned to the men, a small smile on his face. "Game over."

A tickling sensation bubbled up from his stomach and Deor soon found himself shaking with laughter. Somehow, he found that he enjoyed the company of the Fellowship, as he learned to call them. The hobbits, Gandalf, Legolas, even the now unconscious Gimli seemed to have grown on him in an unexpected way.

"I believe that is the first time I've seen you smile, Son of Daren."

Deor looked over his shoulder to see the White Rider standing beside him, a little smile peering through his snowy beard.

He simply looked at Gandalf for a moment before shrugging. "I have found little to smile about before now, _Mithrandir." _

"But should that stop you, my young friend?" He had to admit, the question had caught him off guard. Still, there was merit in the words of the White Wizard, and he had played a pivotal role in saving Rohan. "No, I suppose not."

"Indeed, you begin to understand." He looked at the slumbering form on the floor. "Well, I believe someone should remove Master Gimli from this undignified position, don't you?"

With the help of Eomer and Legolas, Deor lifted Gimli and carried him out of the hall into an adjoining room. There were already many empty cots inside, for many had come to Edoras that could not be fully housed within the city, to which the King had graciously allowed men to sleep in the many vacant rooms of Meduseld. A smile was on the dwarf's face as they set him down.

"I don't think that he'll be smiling when he wakes up," said Eomer.

"Especially when he learns that he lost to an elf," added Legolas.

Chuckling softly, they quickly exited the room and shut the door, leaving Gimli to whatever pleasant dreams awaited him.

It was a night that Deor would never forget. The gap in his being had been filled with joy as the night progressed, laughing and crying many of the people. Merry and Pippin were in great form, dancing on top of tables and singing of a tavern, the Green Dragon, and its superb brew of ale as someone played a fiddle. Even as he went to sleep on a cot near Gimli, the last few verses echoed through Deor's mind:

_You can drink your fancy ales, _

_You can drink them by the flagon. _

_But the only brew for the brave and true,_

_comes from the Green Dragon! _

Chuckling at the ridiculous little song, he passed into a deep sleep.

* * *

_He sat on a horse as it raced across a vast plain. The sky was pitch black above him, but the sun peaked through the dark clouds in the east. A great white citadel stood to the west, and the shapes of riders moved about him, but larger shapes attacked them. Then, he saw a giant winged creature flying towards him. _

_It swooped down towards a rider on a white horse, giving a dreadful howl and—_

"Help!"

Deor awoke as though he had been struck in the face. Sitting up, he saw Merry staring at Pippin, writhing on the on the floor with the stone from Orthanc in his hands. A red light shone through the orb and it seemed to be causing great pain to the hobbit, who was unwilling — or unable – to let it go.

Merry's shout had done some good. Gandalf was instantly on his feet, and a door flung open to reveal Aragorn and Legolas sprinting into the room.

"Someone help him!" Merry begged as Pippin began to scream.

The Ranger leapt forward and pried the stone from the hobbit's fingers. As soon as his flesh was pressed to the fiery marble, Aragorn gave a cry of pain and stumbled. Legolas steadied him, but the stone slipped from his grasp, rolling across floor.

As it passed, Deor glimpsed the source of light within.

An eye. It burned as though it were encompassed with fire, a great slit down the middle like a cat's. It whirled in the stone, gazing at each of the room's occupants in turn. As the Eye passed over him, Deor shivered and felt an overwhelming urge to hide from a great malice.

Gandalf grasped a dark cloak and chased after the rolling orb. He flung the cloth over and covered it, then the presence vanished.

"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf turned to gaze at the hobbit. Deor had never seen him so angry. Pippin did not answer. He looked at the lad on the floor, but he was unnaturally still.

The wizard ran to Pippin, knocking Merry aside as he knelt by the hobbit. He placed a hand on Pippin's brow and murmured unfamiliar words. After a short silence, Pippin gave a shuddering gasp, as though he had fallen into deep water. The halfling's eyes were wide as he searched the room for an unseen enemy.

"Look at me," said Gandalf.

Pippin obeyed the wizard, fear in his eyes. "Gandalf," he whispered, "Forgive me."

"Look at me," said Gandalf. "What did you see?"

Pippin was silent for a moment, then… "A tree. There was a white tree, in a courtyard of stone. It was dead. The city was burning."

"Minas Tirith?" asked Gandalf. "Is that what you saw?"

"The Gondor capital?" questioned Deor, but Aragorn silenced him with a look.

"I saw…" Pippin gazed at the wizard with terror of a nameless evil. "I saw _him!" _

The room grew cold and the silence deepened as Pippin continued. "I could hear his voice inside my head!"

For the first time since Deor knew him, Gandalf seemed afraid. "What did you tell him? Speak!"

Pippin clamped his mouth shut, but Gandalf persisted and he slowly spoke.

"'Who are you?' I didn't answer, but he hurt me. Then I couldn't stand it any longer and I said, 'I'm a hobbit.'" He shivered from the memory. "And he _laughed_ at me. It was like being stabbed with knives!"

Gandalf continued to question him. "What did you tell him about Frodo and the Ring?"

"Out!"

Deor jumped. Aragorn had regained his strength and herding the men through the door. "Everyone out! _Now!" _

Deor sat there, amazed at this sudden change in the Fellowship in a matter of minutes. The Ranger turned to look at him and he saw a pale fire in his eyes. Deor sprang out of bed and ran past him out the door, not wishing to court the Dunedain's wrath.

The door slammed shut behind him, and he was pressed into the narrow corridor with the other men.

"What in the name of Eorl was _that_ about?" one of the men asked.

No one answered, but all felt that something momentous was set in motion. Deor knew nothing about a 'Frodo' or a Ring, but he thought of the fiery Eye in the stone, and of the words Saruman spoke before he died.

_His attack will come soon. You're all going to die! _

A storm was coming, and he only hoped they were able to weather it.

* * *

_There we go. That writer's block was a severe pain and I'm glad I've found a way around it. _

_Please review at your leisure, and thanks for reading! _


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